Not for your ears
by Ariel Briefs
Summary: She stole a wish... And now, nothing will ever be the same again.
1. Prologue

What's done, cannot be undone.

There's no going back.

No resolution.

No absolution.

No _peace_.

One foolish mistake – a single, cruel twist of fate – and now I am forced to deal with the titanic and all-encompassing consequences of my actions.

I could never had imagined, not even in the dark and tortured abyss of my now-shattered soul, this repulsive reality surrounding me; that a foolish dalliance on my behalf, naught more than a outward expression of a child's arrogant desires, could set the world ablaze.

And yet here I stand, lost and lonely, one of the few survivors of my race, trapped in a realm of chaos and darkness entirely of my own design.

All because I made a wish.

… And that wish came true.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Every night it's a variation of the same dream.

Crouched, shivering and hidden under the smoked out remains of ruined vehicles, or within the burnt façades of skeletal skyscrapers, or, more than once, among a heap of newly desecrated corpses, Bulma Briefs is haunted by the past. Accosted by omens, signs; things so obvious she shouldn't have missed them, seemingly _couldn't _have missed them, and yet, nonetheless, did. In her waking hours she represses the truth. In her dreams she's pillaged by it. The dragon's eyes flash, for just a heartbeat, a dire warning shining ominously in their crimson depths. Goku's normally carefree face contorts viciously, the knowledge hidden within his uncharacteristically furrowed brow dark and dangerous. Even the very heavens themselves, crashing and quaking in a violent, chaotic tumult, signal the planet's impending doom.

Sometimes she imagines, after a day of pointless wandering, that she let Oolong finish his exceedingly obnoxious, ultimately harmless wish; that the consequences of their naive desires equated only to a slightly draftier underwear drawer somewhere. Sometimes, like a drowning man grasping desperately for a life preserver, she almost, _almost _convinces herself that these fantasies, so beautiful in their utter mediocrity, are real. Then she awakes. And reality rears its head.

Those moments of carefree, whimsical imaginings, dreams of a world gone r_ight_, are the worst of all.

And then, sometimes, on cold, lonely mornings when the isolation and guilt become simply too much, she wishes she had have died with the rest and she contemplates finally put an end to her aimless, directionless wanderings. But she didn't die. And even now, when nothing remains, suicide seems the broken man's way out. Bulma Briefs was never a fighter. That was Goku's job, Yumcha's job. She was never brave like them. On the contrary, she was always the first to run, to scream, to hide. But she is not broken. Even now, left with nothing but the memories of her own ultimately annihilating mistake, she is not broken.

As usual, though, there's little time to contemplate life as it was. This, in a way, is one of the few blessings of her chaotic life. She lives now in a world gone mad, a fact reiterated by the heavy footsteps that now approach her location. He's close, too close. Close enough for the scouter beeping furtively to pick up her power level, regardless of its apparent frailty. Close enough to realize, if he cares to, that it isn't animal interference or static discharge or a low level EMP, that someone still remains alive. So Bulma Briefs does what she's done a thousand times before. Burrowing further into her make-shift shelter she shuts her eyes, balls herself into the fetal position and prays that her presence will, like so many times before, nonetheless escapes his notice. She hides. She was never a fighter. That fact, unlike so many others, remains unchanged.

And, despite her own internal assurance of death, she is granted a reprieve. At least for one more second… One more minute… One more hour… One more day… Who knows? This is what her life has become; an endless wait for the moment when she is not so lucky and death, now her closet companion, greets her in its cold embrace.

This is the world she inhabits.

A world she created.

A world she destroyed.

All for the sake of a prince.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"I wish for a pair-"

The stout pig's perverse desires were cut short as a fiery blue-head tackled him from behind, pinning him to the ground and muffling his words with a strategically placed veil.

"Mphhmmmhhhhh," Oolong squealed in desperation, struggling frantically beneath the inspired teen, desperate to make his wish.

"I don't think so, Buddy!" Bulma barked in triumph. "I didn't come all this way, endure all the perverted peep-shows, groping and outfits, just to come up empty handed."

She grinned furiously up at the furling emerald serpent encompassing the sky. The heavens shook as the omnipotent being waited impatiently for her command. She shivered in anticipation and genuine delight. Now, finally, after all the fighting and tears she would get what she'd been searching all this long journey, indeed her entire life, for.

"Dragon," she whispered with bated breath, her tone as soft and smooth as a lover's caress. "I wish… for my Prince."

"Wish granted," the monstrous serpent roared, vanishing instantly into the nothingness from whence it had come. In its place stood a boy on the cusp of manhood, surely only years older than Bulma herself. He had a tall flame of onyx hair, cold black eyes and hard features. His face was set in a mirthless scowl. His body, clad in a tight-fitting spandex suit of royal blue and white, enhanced his finally chiseled muscles. Everything about him screamed strength, power… and danger. Later, Bulma would convince herself that she had seen in him all the terrible, unearthly things that were to come, that her initial sense of trepidation was the result of future sight and not of instant attraction. Later, so much later, she would deny furiously the fierce passion he instilled within her from the very moment their eyes met. Because the truth was at that moment, during that small corridor of time as he stood rock hard and gorgeous only inches away from her, Bulma was the happiest she'd ever been.

Cheeks red, lashes fluttering, innocence and naivety still intact, she approached him.

"Hi, I'm-"

Her words were silenced as a vice grip, impossibly strong and lightning fast, surrounded her thorax. The boy, revealing the strength his chiseled form belayed, raised her from the ground carelessly. Unable to speak, barely able to breath, Bulma lashed out at her assailant, clawing in vein at the hand that asphyxiated her. The boy's skin, like his expression, was as hard and cold as steel.

"What magic is this?" he seethed, his voice matching the iciness of his gaze.

Bulma choked, unable to answer. Black dots were swimming in her vision and her attempts to break free were waning. Realizing her inability to reply the cold boy released his choke hold. Bulma fell to the warm desert floor, coughing and wheezing.

"Where am I?" he asked, his cold stare boring into her. "Why did you bring me here?"

She was not given time to answer. Goku appeared before her suddenly, entirely off-kilter. Everything about him – the way he stood, the absence of his usual carefree demeanor and his completely out of character scowl – felt _wrong_. In the space of minutes it seemed he'd become an entirely different person. It was then, at that very moment, that Bulma began to feel truly afraid.

"Leave my friend alone," he muttered, but there was none of his usual carefree vindication, or his a-typical, sometimes infuriating confidence. In point of fact Goku sounded as scared as Bulma felt. The foreign boy's eyes widened as he stared unabashedly at the brown appendage swaying back and forth behind Goku's taut form.

"You're Saiyan," he muttered. It wasn't a question.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Goku replied, defiantly.

"You remember nothing?" the boy continued, his intense gaze boring into Goku's own. "Nothing of your mission here or the reason you were sent? You were clearly meant for an infant purge and yet the fact this disgusting mud ball remains seething with life, if, indeed, you can call it that, is testament to your failure."

"I don't know what you're suggesting or what you _think_ you know but this is my home, these are my friends and I will protect it and them at all costs."

By now the rest of Bulma's friends and companions had arrived on the side lines and, from the looks of shock and bewilderment of their faces, it was clear that this new Goku, so concise and distant, had thrown them, too, for a loop. In fact, this was the first time in their acquaintance that Bulma could actually believe that Goku was the age he claimed to be and, despite wishing, sometimes quite loudly, that he'd grow up, she didn't like this new Goku, not one bit. Or more, she didn't like what the appearance of this uncharacteristic maturity signified.

The boy laughed at Goku's passionate assurance; a cold, mirthless sound that sent an unconscious shudder down Bulma's spine.

"You will do no such thing. I am your prince, boy, and if you know what's good for you then you will help me finish the job you were sent here to do."

Goku stood his ground, shaking his head lightly in defiance.

"No, I won't."

"A pity, when the time comes you could have been quite useful," the cold Prince raised a single finger, forming an orb of intense white light. "But then how much help could a single brain damaged, lower class brat really be?"

Goku wasn't given time to respond.

"GALIK GUN!" the Prince screamed, sending the now significant stream of energy on a collision course towards the child-like warrior. Goku balked, his defense stance pitiable against the sheer power of the Prince's assault. He was thrown against the side of a nearby cliff face and landed in a heap at the bottom, still and bloodied. Operating on autopilot Bulma ran to his side. His body was awash with deep cuts and broken limbs. As she propped him up against the rocks he coughed, a steady stream of blood trickling down his chin.

"Oh my God, Goku," she whispered tightening her grip on him, scared to let go, willing him to live despite the evidence screaming that his body was broken beyond repair. It was all happening so fast; her world turned upside down in an instant. "What do we do? What do I _do_? I'm so scared."

Goku grinned and suddenly he was, again, the boy she knew and loved, her best friend and comrade in adventure. And that made it so much worse. Because despite the fact that this boy, this innocent, cheerful child, had saved her countless times he was dying and there was nothing she could do. But it was worse, so much worse, because she had no one to blame but herself. She was the one who had made the wish. She had summoned this hostile demon. It was all her fault.

Her vision grew cloudy as her tears fell unchecked upon the desert sand. Despite his injuries Goku pushed himself weakly to his feet, leaning heavily against the rock wall. He winced in pain, his atypical grin still in place; the very definition of a brave face. Bulma reached for him but he gently shoved her aside, smiling all the while.

"Run," he muttered, shoving her towards Pilaf's castle, towards relative safety and the chance of escape.

"No I won't leave you," she gasped. "You're hurt. I can't leave you! I won't-"

"Bulma," the gravel in his voice startled her to silence. Once again the old Goku had disappeared and in his place stood this doppelganger, his face a cold, unreadable mask of dark emotion. "Bulma, I can't beat him. I can't win. His power… It's like nothing I've ever felt. It's unfathomable. With one hit he decimated my strength. I don't think he was even trying. You need to go. You need to leave this place at once. I can give you time to escape. Please, just leave. Now!"

"…But, Goku…"

"Please, Bulma," he smiled, the old Goku again, her friend, her _best _friend, making the ultimate sacrifice so that she, the weakling, the coward, the selfish, stupid, girl, would live. With tears streaming down her face, her heart throbbing from loss, she ran. Not once did she turn back.

She never saw Goku again.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Both men watched the pinprick orb of scarlet energy; one with casual disinterest, the other unmitigated horror. The latter, a scientist of some repute, was bound naked to a cold steel operating table. His body was a cornucopia of bruises, shallow cuts and burns; memoirs of the cataclysmic devastation that now substituted everyday life on Earth. He was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration as he waited, terrified, for the next, inevitable onslaught.

The generated lights of the vast underground facility flickered momentarily. The scientist, whose name was Jack Wills, had sincerely thought himself safe. In fact, up until an hour ago, every step since his chaotic escape from the world above had seemed almost heavenly ordained. Hiding deep underground, amongst the cluttered and chaotic hulks of abandoned experiments and obsolete electronics, he had imagined himself completely secure as he waited out the inevitable conclusion of Earth's cataclysmic alien apocalypse. It was only a matter of time, Wills thought smugly to himself, before Earth's tormentors' eventual loss of interest, or the simple and inevitable degradation of their rapidly shrinking supply of victims. Sooner or later they would be gone. And then nothing and no-one could harm him. It was all just a matter of patience.

Or so he had thought.

An hour ago _he _had appeared from nowhere. Pummeling Wills when he tried to run, singeing the clothes from the scientist body with a mere flick of the wrist, tying the terrified, naked man with thick, coarse rope to the cold steel table in the ultimate show of degradation and shame. The alien had laughed at Wills obvious fear then asked, in a quiet voice that did nothing to belay his sinister aura; about the vast underground warehouses Wills has once thought his ultimate safe haven. It had taken less than a minute for this abusive transition from freedom to imprisonment, less than a minute for Wills' delusions to crumble like so much broken glass. He was not safe. He never had been.

"You say her name is Briefs?" asked the tyrant in a bored voice, breaking Wills from his mental wanderings. The warrior's physique mimicked that of a wrestler; his tall, bulky mass a solid wall of chiseled muscle. His thick main of jet black hair cascaded down his shoulders almost to the balls of his feet. Behind his back a brown furry tail swayed casually back and forth, flaunting the alien's apathy towards the scene before him and the task at hand.

He had not revealed his name to Wills nor his purpose in visiting the vast underground labyrinth. Despite his ingenuity Wills had still yet to discover why, if for any reason at all, he was of such interest to this hulking devil. He also remained unsure as to what interest a building, mainly used for storage, could possibly provide.

Nonetheless, desperate to answer the alien's initial, and so far only, question, Wills had talked animatedly, offering up every detail he could think to add in the hopes of securing a pardon from the death sentenced promised in the alien's cold, callous gaze. While Jack Wills talked the other man stood: stoic, nodding occasionally, his face a mask of impassive disinterest. Nothing Wills had said in the last hour, barring mention of the Briefs girl, had sparked even the smallest sign of acknowledgement from his tailed foe.

"Yes, that's right, Bulma Briefs," Wills blurted, grasping desperately to anything that might grant him a reprieve. His eyes remained fixed on the small globe of energy twinkling idly at the tip of the tailed man's finger. Minute details about Bulma Briefs had been revealed during Wills purge, along with the purpose of the facility, the men who ran it, even a few top secret facts about his former employer's that would have got him fired, or worse, had the world in which he had lived not burnt to the ground around him. What did secrets mean now? So Wills had chosen to omit not a single detail. He had done so because he was an intelligent man. From the moment the aliens touched down Wills had kept informed: listening to the radio, watching news reports by the dozens. He had seen the footage, multiple reels from multiple locations, of the damage little orbs of light, like the one currently sparkling at the end of his tormentor's fingertip, could do. Whole cities destroyed, people vaporized to dust. Wills stared at the pinprick ball of luminance, barely blinking, because he was afraid of what it _could_ do. He talked because he was terrified of what it _would_. Jack Wills had never been a brave man.

"Like I said she's the daughter of my boss, Dr. Briefs," he responded shakily. "Briefs is the CEO of this company, Capsule Corporation. This is the main headquarters and his resident, as it so happens. Or at least it was… It was his father who initially created the Corporation from the bottom up. Capsules, robots and the like were, at that stage, our primary goods. Then Dr. Briefs took on the role as the head, and for the most part sole, inventor. Created a multitude of things that changed the world. These days however it's quite a different story. Some say it's been quite a while since we produced any of _his_ ideas. Now the vast majority of our inventions come directly from her. Bulma Briefs, that is. She's a genius; had half a dozen doctorates before her 10th birthday, won dozen of prizes for her innovative designs, she's even composed a sympathy or two, come to think of it. There is nothing that girl can't or won't do."

"An inventor, you say?" and finally, after hours of frenzied, meaningless talk, a spark of interest was alight in the cruel alien's eye. Minute, at best, but it was there nonetheless, shining like a precious jewel in a sea of darkness. Wills grasped it like a drowning man would a life preserver. Perhaps there was a chance, however slim, that he would survive this encounter and live to tell the tale.

"Yes, yes indeed! Great imagination that girl has. She's an absolute wizard when it comes to electronics. She created the air bike when she was just five, I believe. And since then it's been a mass of things. You name this last decade's inventions and one way or the other that girl's had a hand in its creation. She's always working on something new. Never a day goes by without news of some innovative idea set to save the world. We've made millions from her and her patented designs. Not that that matters much now-"

"What about instant transportation technology?" the alien cut in.

Wills hesitated.

"I'm not sure what you mean…"

The orb of light began to pulse; an ominous beacon flashing a clear warning: danger, rough waters ahead. The problem was, Wills was telling the truth. Instant transportation? Even the Briefs girl, genius that she was, was years, perhaps decades away from something like that. They had yet to even reach space, for Kami's sake!

"I m-mean, I honestly d-d-don't know!" the scientist stuttered, his voice shaking with fear, his ever-widening eyes fixed, like a deer in headlights, to the steadily blinking red light. Maybe he wouldn't be so lucky after all. "I've n-not heard of any s-s-such technology. Not even in the development s-stage."

"Really?" the tailed man asked, he nonchalantly raised his finger, pointing it in the direction of the shackled man. "How come I don't believe you?"

He didn't wait for a response. In an instant, a heartbeat, the light, now a stream of penetrating energy, flashed across the room, piercing the man's left shoulder, the cold steel bench and several meters of the ground beneath. Jack Wills ear-splitting scream echoed dully off the concrete walls and down the dank, deserted corridors of the vast underground complex. The tailed man grinned sadistically, suddenly interested, extremely so; savoring the cries of his hapless prey.

"I SWEAR!" screamed Wills shrilly. "I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!"

"So you can't tell me then how a man could suddenly disappear from half way across the universe only to reappear a second later on this vapid, vermin-infested mudball?"

"I don't know, I don't know," Wills whimpered, tears of pain, humiliating and fear falling unchecked down his ruddy cheeks. What answer could he possible give that would suffice when he quite literally had none? "I s-swear, I DON'T KNOW!"

"Really?" Another beam of intense bright light flashed again across the room, piercing the scientist's un-maimed shoulder. The screams mixed with curses, pain turned to anger. Jack Wills pulled against his bonds, spasming in agony and rage.

"I'VE ALREADY TOLD YOU I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!" he screamed. "DON'T YOU THINK I'D FUCKING TELL YOU IF I DID, YOU UGLY FREAK!"

"Now, now, it's not nice to call people names," the tailed man muttered, his tone demeaning and full of dark, sinister humour.

Another beam; this one aimed to cripple, maim, debase. The scream that followed lasted several minutes, breaking into hoarse sobs only as the scientists voice grew weak from exertion. A puddle of dark blood pooled around Wills groin, his face awash with tears of agony and shame.

"Please!" he cried, his supplicating, agony-drenched voice suddenly several octaves higher. "Please! I'm telling you the truth. Please. I don't know anything. I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! PLEASE!"

"You know what," the taller man muttered, his grin animalistic and savage, thoroughly enjoying every minute of his dark deed "I think I'm starting to believe you."

The cries, pleas and screams continued throughout the night. Later, so very much later, the tailed man rested, sitting back and relaxing in an office chair several meters from the Jack Wills lifeless corpse. He sipped a tall glass of Iceling _pohk'ta_ and fiddled with the communications device atop his head. A link was made with his intended recipient and he sat suddenly to attention, instantly alert.

"My prince, I've news," he said to the empty room.

"What is it, Raddiz?" a cold voice responded from his ear piece.

"I've new information on the girl."

"You've discovered how she brought me to this God forsaken planet?"

"No, no as of yet sir. However, there are a few things about her that might help explain how she's managed to avoid us for so long…"

The tall mustachioed man smirked at the cowering group. Several had wet themselves and one seemed to haven fallen into a fear induced coma. Cowards all, these ruffians who thought themselves Kings of the Apocalypse. Looting from private residences, raping any female they came across, killing for the fun of it; the mustachioed man had watched in a sort of begrudged admiration as these pirates went about pillaging their world. Their rampage of sadistic destruction and chaos was truly Saiyan in its debased nature. These ruthless actions, however, were where the similarities ended. Upon revealing himself, easily deflected their flimsy bullets, carelessly avoided their pathetic attacks, laughing at their abysmal power levels, the men had shown themselves for the weak and pathetic cowards they truly were. Useless as warriors, but perfect for what he had in mind.

"Memorize this face," he said, holding up a large newspaper clipping of the Briefs girl. Radditz had given it to him earlier that day, salvaged from the wreckage of what they now knew to be her house and workplace. He could barely believe it possible that such a young, attractive female could be responsible for the last two weeks drama. "Find her and I might just let you live. It ain't gonna be easy though. She's avoided us, avoided _me_, for the past two weeks. She's clever, she's agile and she knows how to avoid being found. Use any means necessary."

"Bulma Briefs, right?" one of the braver ones asked, a slight quiver to his voice. "The scientists?"

"If you know that you know that half the devices you use on this miserable planet, including the flimsy, piece of shit weapons you hold in your hands right now, are her design. For that reason, even if you do find her catching her may be another thing entirely. She knows how to hide, she knows the weaknesses of your equipment and she can outthink you in a heartbeat. Do not underestimate her or it may be the last thing you ever do."

The mustachiod man passed the newspaper clipping around. One of the men, overweight and bald, licked his lips suggestively.

"We 'loud to 'ave a little fun, you know, before we bring 'er to youse?"

"Only if you want to die," the hulking alien responded, not missing a beat. He laughed as the perverted man paled instantly, falling back to what he deemed a safer locale. Earthlings, truly the most pathetic and miserable species he had ever come across. They were good for a laugh though. "She must be brought to us entirely unharmed. Don't think we won't know if you try to pass off _damaged goods_."

"What's your interest in her?" asked a quiet man near the rear, his heavy glasses obscuring much of his shadowed face.

"That, is none of your concern."

'_Clever'_? He had no idea. Had she been the woman she was two weeks ago, before the wish, before her idiocy, before the end of the world, she would have laughed in his face. She would have walked up to him, every inch the arrogant scientist and woman she was, pulled off the manicured prosthetics, the perfect stage make-up, the grizzled wig, and laughed and laughed and laughed at his stupidity and her brilliance. Even now, despite the risk, she longed to do just that. But she didn't. Bulma Briefs was many things, but she was no idiot. And so she sat with the gang of cut-throats and rapists, the worst of the worst, listening the bald man's request and screaming with laugher on the inside. He wouldn't tell her what he wanted with her but so what? She had a pretty good idea.

_Not that it matters much anymore_, she thought bitterly. Almost as soon as she had left the battle scene she had begun her search for the dragonballs, intent on setting everything she had made so very wrong right once more. It was no easy task, as they were now stone and gave off only the faintest signal on her dragon rader. Nonetheless, four days into her journey she had managed to recover two, despite the fact that the world was falling down around her. Ultimately though it had been to no avail. Abruptly, at noon on that chilly forth day in a faraway desert, all faint signals had completely evaporated from the tiny, round screen. She had fiddled with the radar for almost half an hour before she concluded that something far greater that broken electronics was amiss. Finally, knowing what she would find but denying it nonetheless, she had opened her backpack to check on the two balls already in her collection. The only thing left was ash. So much for wish reversal. Whatever magic held the balls together had finally been put to rest, no doubt by the alien invaders and their murderous appetites. But there was a silver lining. Because now even if they did catch her, even if she answered the flame haired boys questions and explained exactly how he had come to be on Earth, the Dragonballs were useless. Absolutely and entirely useless. And in some ways that was a good thing. The aliens had done irrevocable damage, not just to the planet but to themselves. However, Bulma could take little satisfaction from the fact, because that they could never use the Balls meant that neither could she. The Earth, it seemed, was now doomed.

_So ask away,_ she thought bitterly to herself. Afterall, what could be done to her that hadn't already been done? In the past two weeks she had literally lost everything. She wondered, briefly, why she was still trying so hard when she had nothing at all to live for.

But that train of thought lead nowhere useful. What was done was done and what they might, or might not, want her for didn't matter. The point was they wanted her. Or, more to the point, that they wanted her _unharmed_. Before, when she had silently, anonymously infiltrated the group of ruffians and thieves in a desperately brave measure to protect herself she had been scared. Now, knowing what she did, she was significantly less so. She had seen what Nappa had, the terror in these terrible men's eyes. She had little doubt that, even from the worst of the worst, she was safe. Keeping her alive meant potentially keeping themselves alive and surely that was their priority just as it was her own. Afterall, what else was left to live for now but the simple sake of living? And, as for the aliens themselves, well, they weren't really an issue were they? Hadn't she already proven that, despite their obvious power advantage, she could avoid them indefinitely? Even now, right under their nose, she was invisible.

And so on the inside she laughed. Because nothing could harm her. At least, no more than what it already had.

She was Bulma Briefs and she was invincible.

… Or so she thought.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N - **Hello faithful readers. It seems a few of you have some questions about the story and, as I don't believe they'll be answered within, I thought it best to take this opportunity to do so. For those of you that weren't quite sure this is primarily a story about Bulma and Vegeta, though, considering the twist, I imagine it will be far from conventional. In other words, and in answer to wenanim's question, it is going to be extremely dark. The reason I've chosen to post the story both on and Mediaminer is because later chapters, likely from the next one onwards, will have to be edited due to their extremely mature content. If this is indeed the case I will inform readers so that, if they so choose, they can read the unabridged version. As SuperSaiyanGal 's question about ages, Bulma's theft of Oolong's wish is during her first hunt for the Dragonballs, making her sixteen, Vegeta seventeen, Radditz presumably in his mid-twenties and Nappa anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. For the time being I believe that's all your questions answered. If you have any more please relay them in comments and I will do my best to answer. In the meantime, I hope you continue to enjoy the story as much as I'm enjoying creating it.

**Chapter 4**

Bulma Briefs was a genius. There was no denying this readily apparent fact. When it came to science, mathematics, history and politics she excelled. At dinner parties, charity balls, even amongst friends she radiated intelligence and wit with a casual ease that stunned most, alienated some and enraged plenty. Through a combination of good breeding, hard work and luck she knew practically everything there was to know. Anything she didn't could and was easily and swiftly absorbed into her significant mental memory banks of raw, instantly accessible data. However, knowing _most_ things does by no means equate to knowing _everything_.

Bulma Briefs had one gaping, potentially deadly flaw: she was not now, nor had she ever been, a people person. As most people know humanity is a quandary which holds to few universal facts and figures. But to Bulma, who worshipped science and mathematics above all else, rigid and uncomplicated rules dictated everything. Logic was king. Therefore, when it came to dealing with other people, Bulma had a tendency to oversimplify, stereotype and label. She stuck with the figures and facts, forgetting, or perhaps failing to recognize, that not everything was dictated by such. Breezing through her existence in most ways made her oblivious to the fact that she was utterly failing in one. Perhaps this accounted for why her one and only friend (now dead) was a bumbling, tailed oaf who seemed to think rarely, if at all, and certainly cared little about Bulma's intellect or her opinion of him. Nonetheless, until now her lack of social skills had provided no boundary that her ravishing beauty, quick wit or superb intellect could not combat. On that warm June day, however, awash among a sea of rotten human beings, this considerable flaw proved dangerous indeed. Though, in the end, it wasn't so much the fact that she didn't understand human beings, though she most decidedly did not, it was that she was convinced, as with most things, that _she did_. Overconfidence and ignorance are a deadly pair.

Her first mistake was her cultured deference for courtesy. She would have been better to wet herself; several of the men had done so the day before when accosted by the vicious hulking alien. Most stunk of piss, shit, sweat; some simple uncleanliness. These Pirates of the New World apparently didn't believe in bathing; some, judging from the buildup of dirt and grime encompassing them, never had. The addition of one more bad smell among a sea of unpleasantness would have gone entirely unnoticed. The quiet retreat of one Bulma Briefs did not.

Her second mistake was leaving the way she did. After the tailed man had made his demands and abandoned the rag-tag group of deadly misfits they had split into several smaller groups. For reasons unbeknownst to her she had managed to land herself squat among the very worst. Marco, the perspiring mass of spongy flesh who joked about the numerous women he had raped before, and after, the alien upheaval. Hideki, utterly silent and entirely naked but for a bright orange beret that sat perfectly positioned upon his bald pate. The twins, Sam and Sammy, currently in the process of cutting rudimentary pictures of naked women into each other's backsides with shards of broken glass. And Jeremy, who had already culled the group (eviscerating a brooding, bespectacled man whose name Bulma had not had the displeasure of learning) because he thought seven an unlucky number. These were men who joked about violent crime, laughed at death, took pleasure in pain. Slinking into the bushes, silent and without fanfare, was in many ways equivalent to an open admission of her abject unease.

Her third mistake was panicking. She was squatting uncomfortably behind an innocuous shrub, her pants around her ankles, when a firm hand gripped her shoulder. Despite the fact that the intruder, Hideki, hadn't noticed Bulma's disparate anatomy, despite the fact that he likely wouldn't have cared, or commented, she panicked. She hadn't planned to, didn't mean to, but one thing on top of the other simply proved too much for her overburdened mind. She screamed shrilly, the voice synthesizer she wore unable to adjust adequately to the significant and sudden rise in volume. Then she ran. Like a deer in headlights, terrified and tactless, she ran.

Considering the new Bulma, jaded, suspicious and shrewd, her reaction made no sense. Or maybe it made all the sense in the world. Goku's death had only been the start of her torment. She had followed the Dragonballs without even thinking, never considering the implications of her actions. For those first few days after the tailed man's touchdown she had put her body and soul into the retrieval of the wish granting orbs, entirely ignoring the signs of destruction, devastation and chaos that greeted her in rapidly increasingly intervals. If she could just find them, she thought over and over again, everything would be made right and she could consider the violent reality that accosted her daily as little more than a past pipe dream of her over vexed psyche. It only occurred to her later, too late to do anything about it, that her flight of fancy had deprived her of so many opportunities; none more devastating than a simple, eternally underrated, farewell.

Four days may seem short but in that time, the time it had taken to finally accept the brutal reality surrounding her and the implications of such, Earth had undergone a cataclysmic make-over: most of the major cities destroyed, landmarks turned to dust and ash, the population decimated beyond repair. The sight of her home had nearly killed her. Certainly, a part of her died in the process of sifting through the demolished ruins, searching desperately for the remains of her inevitably deceased parents; searching for something, anything, that would connect her to the place she had once called home but now seemed more alien with each, heart-wrenching second. She had walked the deathly silent underground tombs for two whole days before she was convinced that, though it boasted, unharmed, much of the equipment it always had there were no signs of life. She had nearly cracked. And then, rather than crying and screaming, rather than curling into a ball and waiting for a savor that would never come, she searched, with a steady hand and a cool head, for anything that could be of use to her in the trying days ahead. It was due to this calculated aloofness that she had been able to infiltrate the group of shady dealers, utilizing one of the many indispensible capsules she now had on hand and the plethora of goodies that lay within. That warm summer day she had held on, taping together what she could of her fractured soul, trying desperately to remain in control of the life that was spinning ever downwards.

Today, however, each vexing moment, piled one on top of the other, became simply too much to bare. Hideki's hand, cold, clammy and invasive, was the straw that broke the camel's back.

And so she panicked, her cracked façade breaking open and spewing forth every negative emotion she had tried so desperately and frantically to suppress. She panicked, she screamed, she ran.

When she made her decision, conscious or otherwise, she sealed her fate. There was never a question as to whether or not they would catch her. The twins had been track runners in their youth and Bulma, who was more accustomed to heels than sneakers, was exhausted from her weeks on the run. The question was what they would do when they did. Her mind running a hundred miles a minute, her feet doing significantly less, she embraced the fact that she was caught and played her mental trump card. Bad men, indeed, but terrified men all the same. Men who would take the orders they were given, men who would do what they were told, men who would hand her willingly over in an attempt to save their own skins. And so, in a way, she was safe. At least, until the flame-haired boy and his goons got their hands on her. Perhaps that was why, despite the part of her that fought so desperately to find the bright side in each and every situation, she was still running.

Then Bulma made her third, final and most cataclysmic mistake. She had to submit, to resign herself to the fact that, in this instance, there was nothing she could do. But she didn't want to. However, she couldn't, for the life of her, see what else she could do. She was without option. And she was too busy thinking to watch where she was going.

Bulma stopped paying attention, stumbled and failed to notice the jutting rock only meters ahead of her. She tripped and went flying. And then she was falling. There was a dull thud and an intense jolt of pain, as she came plummeting back to the Earth landing head first on a hard outcropping of stone. Then there was no more to think about, no more to contemplate, no more to evade because everything went suddenly, mercilessly blank.

The first thing she thoughtwas that the heater must be broken because she was freezing. Her house was never this cold. Her mother always kept it warm, cozy and sparkling clean. Her mother, who always smiled, always flirted, was always there with a warm cocoa and a shoulder to cry on. Her mother… who was dead. As it had every morning since that first grief-stricken one reality struck her, hard and fast, and everything came flooding back.

She didn't open her eyes. She refused to. Life had beaten her again and she was sick and tired; sick of reality, tired of rude awakenings, violent happenings and harsh, cruel surroundings. This new world, so alien, so soon, sickened and terrified her. Earth, littered with a plethora of merciless monsters, both human and otherwise, had never been perfect. But it had never been _this_. This place was unrecognizable. Where once terror had been a happenstance, it was now every day, unavoidable, incessant. She had tried so hard, so _hard_, to be brave like Goku had been brave. She had tried so hard, fighting desperately, tooth and nail, just to survive. But why and for what? What was there to live for, to fight for, now?

She knew why she was cold, knew all too well, and it had little to do with the unseasonable weather.

So she closed her eyes, she stemmed her thoughts and she wished for nothingness to consume her. All things considered, that seemed the best of her infinitesimal options.

As soon as he glimpsed her visage – so young, pink and pure - he'd determined to have her for himself. Since he'd been shot square in the forehead, years ago during a botched robbery, his memory had been frail at best. He had already forgotten his request to use the girl and the alien's subsequent denial. Indeed he remembered only fragments of why and for whom they were supposed to find her in the first place (if not for his fellow criminals he would likely have forgotten that too). When it came to things such as these, places he needed to be, things that must be done or were expected of him, his mind was a sieve. However, he had not forgotten her. He always remembered a pretty face.

He needed no memento nor souvenir of his many conquests; from the first (his childhood nanny who forced herself on him only to find the roles reversed) to his most recent (a short, squat blonde girl, thirteen if she was a day, who he lured into his van with promises of ice creams and teddy bears). In vivid detail, belaying his otherwise poor cognizance, he remembered each and every one.

His member had swelled, stiff and erect, from the moment he first heard her beautiful, terror-drenched screams. Like music to his ears it instantly awoke the beast within. Even now he throbbed painfully, hungrily as he eagerly awaited his inevitable release.

He had watched as the twins pelted after her, anxious to root out the traitor in their midst. They needn't have bothered, like a gift from the very heavens themselves, she had tripped and fallen, knocking herself unconscious, offering herself to them like a lamb to the slaughter. The others, baring perhaps Hideki who remained eternally oblivious, had been shocked by the revelation that hidden within their midst was the very creature they had been sent to find. Marco, on the other hand, was not at all surprised. From the moment he heard her luscious siren song he knew. It was manifest destiny's finest hour.

It was the twins also who had stripped her, ever so carefully cutting the clothes from her body with their gleaming array of knives. But it was Jeremy who had carried her motionless form to the clearing, Jeremy who had created a make-shift but sturdy pyre to which she had been affixed, Jeremy who had warned them all, with his eyes and his voice not to touch.

Marco had seen it all and yet remembered nothing. Even if he had he wouldn't have cared. As far as he was concerned she was his and had been from the very beginning. That was all that mattered.

He gazed at her under the cover of the moon, her bare skin luminous in its ivory perfection, her long azure hair falling like a nun's veil, obscuring her virginal body, a thick lock of curls further concealing the nether regions he so longed to touch, suckle, maim. A thin trail of drool fell from his mouth and he licked his lips in sick anticipation.

Marco unbuckled his pants, abandoning them as they fell in a pile at his feet. His small penis jutted furiously upward, desperate to bury itself within the folds of its waiting prey. He reached out, with shaking hands, inches away from the perfect, flawless ivory of her pert breasts.

A bang.

And then he screamed.

It took Marco a minute to fully comprehend what he was seeing. Where once there had been an appendage, conqueror and destroyer of so many, there was now only a steady, thick stream of dark, hot blood and gore.

Another bang, recognizable as a gunshot this time, rang hollowly throughout the clearing.

The last thing Marco saw was his still rigid member, lying to attention in the bloodied grass. Then the world, like so many memories, was lost to him in a sea of eternal darkness and despair.

Bulma, still desperately clinging to her notion of abandonment, pretended not to have felt the man's heavy breath on her cheek. Nor had she heard the gunshots or his piercing, tormented scream. Her eyes remained clamp shut on the world. She was not the only one shrouded within her own imagined reality.

His smile gleamed in the moonlight.

"You know the funny thing," a man, it sounded like Jeremy, said. His voice was too collected, too soft, too calm. "Ten minutes earlier and he would have had his way with you. Ten minutes early and you would have been utterly ruined and I may have been forced to hand you over to the alien brutes. Ten minutes and I would still have been lying apt in the grass over yonder waiting for the right moment, the perfect moment, to strike. What a difference ten minutes can make, hmm?"

Bulma didn't reply. She couldn't hear, she was an island, it was all nothing. A pretender to the last.

The man violently kicked the lifeless corpse at Bulma's feet and, despite herself, she shuddered as the dull thud reverberated throughout her entire body, as though it was she he had kicked and not the would-be rapist sitting dead at her feet.

"Yes, perhaps it's better if you keep your eyes closed, though I suspect it'll make little difference in the long run," and now Bulma could not ignore the fierce blaze of light that even through her eyelids she could see. Wanting, no needing, to know she opened herself up to the scene before her. The man, it _was_ Jeremy, was bent over, fiddling with the sticks and logs of the make-shift pyre to which she was attached, setting pieces of kindling alight with a small box of matches and shoving them here and then in a determined manner. He was humming softly, set about his work, and it occurred to Bulma (how could she have missed it?) that Jeremy wasn't evil or demented. Rather he was entirely and absolutely instance. Yet another victim of the alien's evil deeds.

"You're a virgin right?" he asked cheerfully, ignoring her terror-stricken face. "No, don't bother answering that. You'll only lie. Woman always lie. People _always_ lie. That's not why they want you, of course. Oh no, no, no. They want you for your _magic_, so you can conquer up more of your 'inventions' and bring more sin and pestilence into this world. But I know their game. Oh yes, oh yes. The apocalypse is not nigh, it is come and you, Bulma Briefs, servant of the devil, mean to finish this world, to help the horseman bring forth everlasting doom. But I shall smite you with the very weapon you sought to destroy us with, using you or, to be more specific, your bodily purity to destroy the corruption of your mind. Destroying all your evil with the cleansing power of the flame. I will stop the final seal from breaking. You shall burn and in your ashes the world will be born anew. I shall be the savior of all… Little Jimmy's death… Katherine's death… once I do this, they will no longer have been in vein."

Bulma didn't say anything. Her heels had begun to blister and bleed as the suckling flames grew more furious below her. Sweat wept from her pores and her entire body ached. Nonetheless she stayed utterly rigid, completely silent. Jeremy was insane, driven mad clearly by the death of his loved ones, but he was not exactly incorrect. None of this, the deaths, the destruction, the apocalypse, would have happened if not for her. Perhaps he was indeed a massager of God; for surely on this Earth none was more deserving of death than she, the very harbinger of death herself. At least, this way, she would be able to see her parents, her comrades and Goku once more. A few moments of anguish and then all the pain, all the suffering, all the guilt would finally, mercilessly be washed away.

A small part of her, the part that would have stayed with Goku despite the risk, the part that had kept her going these past weeks, clawed, tooth and nail, to fight, to endure, to survive. She shouldn't give up; she simply could not allow all the deaths and sacrifices to have been for naught. The fact that it was her fault was all the more reason for her to live, to put right all that she had done. Some stupid, insane man wouldn't be the end of her, he couldn't! She would not submit, would not surrender. She simply would not!

Bulma's warring self struggled to rectify itself. Her head swam. The only option was no option at all. Even if she wanted to fight how could she? She wept, she screamed, she forgot to breath. Her head swam. Her world blurred at the edges. She didn't want to die, not really, not now, not ever.

Bulma did not see Jeremy obliterate into nothingness as a bright flash of all-encompassing light encircled his tranquil form. Nor did she see the arrival of the tall, mustachioed man; her would-be hunter and apparent savior. She did not feel his callous, but gentle, hands as he ripped her free of the thick ropes encasing her body, pulling her from the fire that would have otherwise consumed her. She did not hear the words, softly spoken and weighed with a considerable helping of begrudged admiration and respect, as he slowly cradled her in his arms and flew towards the slowly rising sun.

It all went un-witnessed because Bulma Briefs, for the second time in as many hours, had fallen into the thick, dark swath of unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

One day. Twenty four hours. One thousand four hundred and forty minutes. Eighty six thousand four hundred seconds. Not much in the space of a lifetime and Nappa was usually a patient man. In fact it was his patience, along with his other un-Saiyanlike characteristics, which had kept him living for more than four decades when so many others, friends and enemies alike, had not. His ability to think outside the square and ignore the ruling conventions of the status quo were his defining features. But the Briefs girl, all five foot three inches of her, was pushing him to the limit of his considerable endurance.

She rapped obnoxiously, for what must have been the hundredth time, on the tank window, bubbles sprouting as she furtively pawed the oxygen mask at her face and thrashed against the sides of her watery prison. The dull sound of her muffled threats echoed hollowly throughout the ship. Not for the first time Nappa wished they had thought to bring a tank equipped with the sleeper function.

He fiddled with the scouter atop his head, again receiving only static in reply. Both Radditz and Vegeta remained incommunicado. Radditz, demonstrating his customary rebellious indifference, had gone on a bender, no doubt sampling the remaining buxom wares of this dying planet. The Prince, on the other hand, had intentionally requested radio silence two days hence to mask the meaning and purpose of his latest search. As it so happened Earth was perhaps not as inconsequential as they'd initially thought.

And to think, only fourteen days ago Nappa had seriously been considering the consequences, or lack thereof, of his own demise.

_*Two weeks earlier*_

When, six hours into a routine purge mission, Vegeta had suddenly, unexplainably vanished Nappa had lost his customary composure. Both he and Radditz had watched as their Prince vanished into thin air. Both he and Radditz had assumed the worst.

As the full impact of what they had witnessed hit them full force Radditz began laughing hysterically. Nappa, enraged beyond thought and feeling, had beaten the lesser man to within an inch of his life. The tall, mustachioed Saiyan, an upper-class through and through, had then had proceeded to utterly annihilate each and every one of the fitful aliens who, through some act of incomprehensible science or magic, had destroyed not only his liege but his one and only reason for living. He slaughtered without thought or feeling, ignoring the screams and pleas of men, woman and children alike. His blood pumped with anger, pain and a hollow aching terror that encompassed his very soul.

And then, when there was no one or nothing left to kill, when he had set the entire world ablaze, Nappa fell to the ground and, for the first time in a long time, he cried; the thick pearly tears falling like crystalized pieces of his shattered soul upon the ashes of the now dead world. Everything he had struggled so hard to repress, the dark shadows constantly hovering just beyond the edges of his conscious mind, began their descent.

At twenty five, battling his way, bloody and bruised, through ninety nine other elites of similar birth, Nappa had won the prestiged position of bodyguard to the newly born Prince, future King and prophesized legendary. The moment the child, wrapped in swaddling cloths, had been placed in his bloody and grizzled arms, Nappa was instantly transformed from an relatively obscure and unknown soldier into one of the most important men alive, at least as far as the Saiyan populace was concerned. He was now bodyguard to royalty, the single greatest position a non-royal could achieve. But to Nappa it was just that; a title. He had entered the contest because his honour and standing demanded it; he had won because he was strong and had a reason, a good one as far as he was concerned, to live. That night, however, returning to his sprawling rural home, set like a rare jewel amongst the vast and relatively untouched mountain ranges just North of the capital, he kissed his sleeping wife and child and recognized, not for the first time, that though he had won the ultimate honour he neither deserved nor desired it. Earlier that day, aloud and to the entire court, he had declared his dedication to the child's protection and rearing. And yet, if forced to choose between this life – making love to his wife beneath the stars, telling his fascinated son stories of the heroes of old, training simply for the mere thrill of it – and his new, _higher_ duty, he would choose the former each and every time. He believed, as most did, in the fundamental Saiyan principles but in an entirely uncharacteristically way. He sought strength, but only so that he might protect his family, he sought honor, but only so that it might bring his loved ones comfort and joy. Lying beside his wife, as the first few rays of the dawn sun begin to infiltrate his darkened bedroom, he wondered vaguely how long his luck would hold. How long until someone, anyone, discovered how very un-Saiyan he truly was? How long before they realized that all the things that meant everything to them meant so little to him? As it so happened it was longer, and yet so very much shorter, than he ever thought possible.

On the day his planet, heart and life were destroyed Nappa and a five year old Vegeta were two days into their purge of the planet Yemmy. He did not find out, however, until almost a week later, when Vegeta, grown cold by the callousness and hate that constantly accosted him, thought it fit to inform him.

Nappa had at first been unbelieving. When he had radioed Frieza's base ship, and his worst thoughts had been confirmed, his disbelief turned quickly to rage. He had gone so far as to raise his substantially fist intending to strike the child who had so callously delayed his grief. But then, as swift and striking as his former anger, had come the realization that he was to blame; not for the planet's destruction but for the monster Vegeta had become. A child who was his responsibility. A child who was now all that Nappa had left.

Vegeta's life had been placed in his hands at birth when Nappa had been given the role of protector and guardian: both tasks he had failed at utterly and completely. So much of what Vegeta had become was because of Nappa. Thoughts of his own son, still so young but growing every day, had stayed his hand as the boy's father savagely instigated another of his brutal 'lessons'. The pull of his family had kept him from spending time with the child who, even from the first, Nappa recognized as desperately unhappy and lonely. It had been easier just to ignore Vegeta's fitful requests, sometimes pleas, of salvation, rather than fighting the King's forced policy of isolation and horror. Nappa had done the bare minimum, failed in each and every plea he had promised to uphold on the advent of the child's birth. And now he was suffering the consequences. The Prince hadn't told him straight away because he didn't care… and because he wanted Nappa to suffer; Nappa who had promised the world and delivered only absence and pain. Really, all things considered, could he blame him? No. Nappa had no one to blame but himself.

He lowered his fist and vowed never to raise a hand to the child ever again and to fight every attacker who threatened to do so. He would show the boy care, love even, so that he might grow and change because of it. Afterall, Vegeta was it. His family, friends, comrades and enemies were scattered to the four winds. Vegeta was all he had left.

To keep himself sane Nappa pushed the thought of his loved ones to the back of his mind. He did not grieve. Even now, so many years later, he recognized that such a thing, acceptance of all the horror that had befallen him, might drive him mad. In his mind, and there alone, his family remained untouchable but alive and well. He knew he would never see them again. He just refused to admit that they were dead. He could almost picture his son's smiling face, chiseled with age and hardened by his father's absence, but hope-filled nonetheless and beautiful. To stave of grief-fuelled insanity Nappa embraced madness of a different form. But it kept him going. That, along with the recognition that the disaster had shown him the error of his ways: he still had someone, however small and cold, to grasp onto. And that was precisely what he did: as a drowning man would a life preserver. Vegeta's salvation would be Nappa's redemption. Little did Nappa know, then, that the damage was done. Five years, to an abused child, is a lifetime.

But there was more to it. So much more. The Saiyan populace had been robbed of both their lives and their dignity in one fell move and Nappa was smart enough, calculating enough, to realize it had been no comet that had destroyed his world. It had been, rather, the sadistic and vicious hand of a pink and purple monstrosity. And so his sole purpose, his one reason for living, became the fledgling Prince not just because he wanted to save the child but because he wanted revenge. And Vegeta, boasting so much potential, _legendary_ potential, even at the tender age of five, was the destined conduit through which he would achieve it.

But that was the past, the life he had fooled himself into living. Now, standing in the ashes of both his victory and defeat, it was plain to see that, once again, everything that he had strived so hard to achieve had been mercilessly robbed from his grasp. He had not been able to make Vegeta into a better man, nor achieve his bloody ambition. His family was dead. His planet was gone. His people remained a shadow of their former glory; a dying race. There was nothing and no one left for him now.

It was in this state of abject despair that Radditz found him hours later as he stumbled across the wasteland of Nappa's grief. Through a mouthful of broken teeth, knowing better than to comment on his comrade's dejected form, Radditz reached out his bloodied hand, offering up his scouter.

"Take this," he managed to grind out.

Nappa ignored him. In his rage he had lost his scoter, along with most of his clothes. It didn't matter. Such things now seemed entirely immaterial. He had lost his life, his family and now he had lost his one, shining chance at redemption and revenge. Nappa would never be strong enough to defeat Frieza. He might as well end it all and safe himself any more misery or suffering.

Radditz, however, was unrelenting. Again, he pushed his scouter under the taller man's nose, more insistent than before. Nappa considered snapping his neck. A familiar buzz met his ears, still incomprehensible from that distance. Probably Frieza, he thought. Frieza asking him why he had destroyed what could have been a highly valuable planet. Frieza demanding to know what had possessed him to make such an unwise move. Frieza threatening him with the pain and horror that was sure to follow such a direct and obvious act of mutiny. Dust in the wind.

Growling, Radditz pushed the scouter atop the older, stronger man's head. The last straw. He really would kill him this time. But then-

"Goddammit, Nappa!" a familiar guttural growl. "Will you fucking respond you useless, bald fool!"

"Vegeta," Nappa rasped, not liking the weakness in his voice

"Yes it's me, idiot! Get in the ship and come here right this instant! I'm sending you the coordinates."

"You're alive?" he muttered, it was all he could do not to break into tears of relief.

"Oh course I'm alive! As if instant transportation, by whatever means, could destroy me, the Prince of all Saiyans. Now hurry up and get off your ass, it'll take you three days to get to this vermin-infested mudball as it is and I'm anxious to discover who and what technology transported me half way across in universe in a heartbeat. Dull as you are I'm sure it has not escaped your notice that this planet could offer the advantage we need to finally rid ourselves of that domineering pest we are forced to call _Master_."

"Yes sir, of course," Nappa responded. With renewed gusto he grabbed Radditz by the nape of the neck and shot over to the other side of the planet where, by some grace of Kami, their ship remained whole and intact. He set Radditz inside the sole rejuvenation tank and programmed the destination into the ship's computer. With renewed purpose and vigor Nappa shot into the sky in pursuit of the man whose existence kept him sane and living.

_*Now*_

She rapped again and Nappa almost, not quite but almost, shot an energy beam straight into the heart of the one thing keeping her alive. He gritted his teeth and reminded himself that she had one redeeming factor; her eyes, fathomless seas of blue that shone with an all-too-familiar life and vitality, were identical to his wife's. Like Nappa himself, Attia was extremely un-Saiyanlike, inside as well as out. That was why he married her.

Memories of his wife robbed Nappa of his anger. He hummed quietly to himself and left the room, thinking he might retire for the night. The girl's healing process still had hours to go and he couldn't think of anything better to do than get some much needed rest. Except perhaps grab a midnight snack, maybe one of those delectable looking beasts he had seen roaming around, before he turned in. He set off into the night sky for a quick meal before bedtime.


End file.
